Perfection
by WamprickNyx
Summary: She yearns for perfection – for that is the key to satisfaction. DracoLuna, romance/angst, one-shot, gift for ChillyPuce. Read and review!


**Summary: "**She yearns for perfection – for that is the key to satisfaction." DracoLuna, romance/angst, one-shot, gift for ChillyPuce. Read and review!

**Disclaimer: **I don't own Harry Potter and no matter how much I wish for it, this harsh truth will never change. *sobs*

**A/N: You are welcome to pass the first long paragraph of this Author's Note since it's only a load of rubbish, though you should read the second paragraph. **

Eh, I'm not completely happy with this, of course – when have I ever been completely happy with something I wrote? Still, better than most I've written so far, well, that's what I like to think... Anyway, this was written for ChillyPuce who wanted a DracoLuna one-shot with the theme 'perfection' after reading another one-shot of mine, 'Damaged Beyond Repair' (It's actually a collection of drabbles in a one-shot). I wrote this a month ago and decided not to post it here, instead, send it to her as a personal gift and I did. Or rather, I thought I did. Recently, I learned that she never got it (damn hotmail!) and so I tried finding the document again. When I found a part of it (I usually write fanfics in parts and then combine them. Bad habit, I know.), I wrote the rest during a vacation (!) at my grandparents' summer house where internet doesn't exist. So, since I finally found an internet cafe nearby after a week of agony, I'm posting it here (I can't open my inbox! Dammit!)

This is unbeta-ed, so there may be mistakes, I've tried my best correcting them and I apologize in advance if there are still some. I hope you guys like it. Please don't forget to review! If you think it's a load of crap, tell me. If you think it's awesome, let me know. Review. Please. I've written over five thousand words, people. Show some mercy!

And as for the ones who are asking "What the heck is a Gubra-whatever Fire?" here is the explanation I took from Lexicon:

_**Gubraithian Fire**_

_This is everlasting fire, the result of an enchantment. When Hagrid and Maxime went as envoys to the Giants after the rebirth of Lord Voldemort, they took with them a branch that was enchanted with Gubraithian Fire to give as a gift to the Gurg. The spell that produces this fire is complex, and according to Hagrid at least "isn' somethin' any wizard could do" [OOTP20]._

As a personal note to Puce, I'm sorry. Please don't kill me. Not yet. I haven't claimed Edward Elric mine, have I? Then there's no reason for you to kill me. ^.^' And Alphonse-kun is mine, 'kay? Suit of armor or not, he's too adorable! *fangirl mode* And... I want Ed for one day a year. I deserve this after all the things I've done for you. Hmph! (. Liar, liar.)

**Perfection**

"_Perfection is finally attained not when there is no longer anything to add but when there is no longer anything to take away, when a body has been stripped down to its nakedness."  
- Antoine de Saint-Exupéry_

"_The pursuit of perfection, then, is the pursuit of sweetness and light."  
- Matthew Arnold_

"_A moment was the most you could ever expect from perfection."  
- Chuck Palahniuk, Fight Club_

---

Draco Malfoy is perfect.

He must be. He has parents who are alive and healthy, extremely good looks that he has inherited from both parents' side, a wealthy and influential family, a pure bloodline and an intelligence only rivalled by that of Hermione Granger's. To most people in the Wizarding Community, he was born lucky and perfect.

Luna Lovegood decides that he seems perfect. He has all these on his shiny tray to show off, maybe, but can anybody know what is going on beneath the surface? And that trademark arrogant scowl... is his mask, his façade; nothing more, nothing less. Luna wonders: If he didn't wear his mocking mask as his glittering façade, would he be any complete – really perfect? Beneath all these layers constructed on countless webs of lies, is there a soul that is pure and complete? Can anybody, can _he_ achieve perfection without giving everything away?

She has no idea.

-

Perfection. Luna ponders on the word, tasting it on her tongue. It has a bittersweet taste – pepper and honey at the same time. She decides she doesn't like it that much. She doesn't like certainty; but despite its mixed taste, it sends Luna waves of it – all sharp and asphyxiating with walls all around. She decides she _really _doesn't like it.

Per-FEC-tion: It's a glamorous word. Mirthful, awe-inspiring on the surface; perhaps rotten, empty and much too gloomy under the façade. It promises too much and gives too less. There is a hidden truth to it – a truth so hideous, she guesses, that it will cause lakes to swallow mountains up and continents to go underwater. So mysterious, so exciting that it draws her to it, no matter how weird it tastes. She wants this weird sweetness she tastes in it more than anything in her life – maybe except her mother and the proof of Crumple-Horned Snorekacks' existence. She can't decide.

She craves it, she desires the taste so badly that she knows she has to give it a try, no matter what. But how?

How to figure out the truth? How can she find out?

Luna is a journalist at heart, like her father and a researcher in mind, like her mother. She is positive that she will get to the bottom of this: She'll find out why this word reeks of a string of empty promises. She'll find out how it is related to a certain golden, or rather, silver boy of Slytherin.

For now, however, she has no idea.

-

Her mind is still fighting the word. She tries coming up with related words and yet all her thoughts are at a blind alley, she can go no further. Instead, she focuses on Draco Malfoy, the important key to her current project. She is baffled, for no word other than 'perfect' is adequate to cover him. He seems to be enveloped in that word: Tightly wrapped up and suffocating.

By the way, when she says 'him', Luna means all of him: mind, body and soul. She figured out he must have a pure soul, for he saw the error of his ways and no longer bullies younger classes. It requires a lot for a person to see their faults, after all. She knows from experience and observation. Oh, and let's not forget the countless Muggle novels she has been reading. Nevertheless, that's not important. What's important is that he has a pure soul and something, a little voice inside her rejoices at her new discovery. It also mourns for him, for being bound by such strong bonds that don't let him see the truth. He seems to be in pain. So much pain that his eyes cannot hide it, despite all the effort he puts into it.

Asphyxiation is a curious way to die, Luna thinks. It is especially curious considering the victim. He seems too perfect, too unreachable for Death to take him. She decides she cannot allow that. She cannot let this happen. His family might have let all this happen; however, _she_ can't. She just can't stand seeing him dying inside. His pain is unbearable to watch.

He is suffocating, bound by his chains. Lies, she thinks, a load of lies fed by his family. How to help him let go of his chains that bind him down? _How to help him? _Her mind cries desperately.

Once again, Luna sadly realizes, she has no idea.

-

Luna is still haunted by the confrontation in the girls' lavatory known as Myrtle's Bathroom. She still remembers the lost, confused and anger-filled eyes she has seen – maybe that's why she searches ways to free him. Perhaps that's why she's so drawn to him. She knows she had the same eyes from her mother's death till her mother's funeral, she looks at the mirror on a daily basis to check if there are Nargles around her head or the tear-eating Egyptian Amunuts near her eyes – they looked dead during the funeral, Ginny once confessed to her, being present during the funeral since her parents knew Luna's parents. So Luna figures she wants to help him because she went through the same phase.

Can it be? Can this be the reason? She is not so sure. But what else-?

She feels her stomach quench as a new possibility reaches her mind. Maybe this isn't simply the aiding of a person who has experienced the same thing. Maybe this is not a just sympathy. Maybe this is more than that: Maybe this is more than a simple infatuation.

She dreads the thought and tries to send it away. She is friends with Harry Potter and the other Gryffindors, not Slytherins. They aren't all bad, of course; but they aren't entirely innocent, either. She must forget this whole deal she has created in her mind. She cannot afford to help Draco Malfoy, no matter how much help he needs. This sounds discriminative and very, very wrong to her ears; yet this is the truth, the harsh and unforgiving truth. She cannot afford to aid him in a search to his freedom of this twisted perfection if there is a chance of her falling for him along the way.

_Falling for?! _

She shakes her head – Luna isn't a shallow girl who will fall for such a lying and cheating boy just because he has a pretty face. She isn't so messed up that she'll dive for the first handsome boy her eyes fall upon. No, there's no way Luna Lovegood can like or fall for or feel any affection for Draco Malfoy. She can sympathize with him and that's all. Nothing more, nothing less. She doesn't like certain things.

Then again, there's _nothing_ certain about Draco Malfoy.

Luna doesn't know what to do, what to think. Her mind is swarming with so many emotions, so many analyzes, so many... _things_ that she just wants to lay on her bed and do nothing until she can stop thinking. How to break herself free from this chain of thoughts?

She stifles a frustrated sigh and a frown. She has no idea.

-

This time they meet in a library. There are people lingering around even at now, dinnertime, so he doesn't mention their last encounter and simply speaks, makes conversation. Or so the little voice in her mind likes to think.

"Busy thinking about Crinkle-Horned Sorekacks, Lovegood?"

He has that knowing, mocking smirk etched onto his pale face as his grey, stormy eyes bore into her skull with their intensity. There's no anger, confusion or a lost look in his eyes this time and Luna feels her breath caught in her throat. Perhaps she had imagined it, _wanted_ those eyes to look similar to hers. Yes, this was more possible than the other option. She swallows and tilts her head instinctively.

"Not really. And they are Crumple-Horned Snorekacks, not Crinkle-Horned Sorekacks."

She doesn't let her eyes wander, instead, forces them to gaze into his, no matter how much they protest. She isn't a coward; she won't cower in front of him. She won't show him how much just one look from him affects her. She won't, no matter how much she wants to.

"Well, who cares? Nobody believes you anyway, why do you care so much about a silly non-existent creature's name?"

"Why do you care why I care?"

"Huh?"

The confusion on his face is genuine and it even looks charming on his face. She feels blood rush to her ears. No, she won't blush. She mustn't. She can't. If she denies blushing, then she won't blush.

"What I meant is, what is it to you if I care about a creature's name? And it's not non-existent, don't talk like Hermione Granger."

He stiffens; a hard look comes to his eyes. A part of her Luna rejoices at being able to affect him whereas another part is shocked at the possibility of having his anger directed at her.

"Why would you compare me to the Mudblood?"

Now it's Luna whose eyes are hardened and whose voice is colder than the icy climate of the North Pole.

"You do not have any right to call her or anybody else for that matter by that awful name."

He grits his teeth, the whiteness of them blinding. His face doesn't seem so attractive anymore, and the part of her which shies away from the likes of him is at more ease now that she isn't blinded by the perfection that surrounds him. How can she, when he's become that twisted hypocrite that wants blood supremacy, the worst kind of racism in this world? How can she, when he acts like he's some sort of king amongst them, mocking them for being inferior to him? How can she, when she sees that sickeningly cold and hard glint in his eyes and something more, something that is mixed with that? She shies away from him, he cannot charm his way to her now. She won't let him, not when he has eyes carved of ice.

"I can call anybody whatever I want, Lovegood, and you don't have a say in that."

"What if I have?" The answer comes out of her mouth before she can stop herself. Her insides clench as she remembers who this person she's dealing with is.

"Well well well, you have spirit. I didn't think there was any sense or spirit in you, after all, you saw your... mommy die before you, didn't you? Hadn't you lost your sanity then?" There's no humour in his eyes, instead fear, and anger that is born from that bloodthirsty fear. She understands. And it shocks her, the truth: so hideous, so horrifying, and so... simple. She understands why she saw him like that at the lavatory that day. She understands why he is constantly in fear. The simplicity of it shocks her.

He's afraid for someone he loves.

She would have never, ever guessed this by thinking. She is a bit happy that she might give him a shoulder to cry on if he lets her, though the possibility of that is too low. A small smile graces her face. He frowns then, probably wondering there is something truly wrong with her head. She wishes she could actually want to be beautiful enough so she could be perfect like him, then maybe all those thoughts of her being insane would leave his head permanently and he would focus on her, only her. But that is shallow and she is everything but shallow. So she tilts her head to her right and closes her eyes knowingly.

"You worry for your mother then, Draco? Afraid something will happen to her?"

She doesn't need to open her eyes to see how shocked he is. It's evident – and she expected his reaction. What she doesn't expect is him grabbing her arms and forcing her to a secluded part of the library: the part where the normal library meets the forbidden part, a few rows not even Madam Pince would wander into as long as there's no need. There's no one there to save her, should she need any help. She hopes that she won't be needing help any time during their... conversation. That's not a very refreshing thought. And the hard wooden shelves aren't helping, either. Her eyes open at once when she feels his breath on her face.

"How do you know this? Who are you, Lovegood? How can you know this?"

His mocking expression is replaced with a shaken look. He smells desperate, like he has to know, like there's no other choice. He is panting as though he has run a marathon; anxiety must be causing those sweat beads across his brows. His eyes, however, are the worst: The desperation she smells is too apparent in his eyes, the fear and shock are too intense and she is sure she is not imagining the lines of worry around his eyes.

"So it is true. I was right, you reek of it..." She murmurs absently, staring at his face with sad, wide blue eyes.

He is now able to control the rhythm of his breaths. A frown enters his face and the edges of his mouth curl.

"Lovegood, tell me right now how you found out about my worry about my mother's welfare or I swear I'll hex you. Bad."

Luna merely stares at him, unblinking and calm. She seems like nothing would ever affect her, she looks far too collected, much more than anyone can be. She knows he's frustrated at her calmness, as anyone would be. However, she doesn't care about that right now. Instead, she's sad. Just... sad. One might ask, why is she? And she answers in her mind: Because he has no one on his side, no one to protect and care for him. His mother is away from him and his father is a cruel man, Luna remembers him well from the Department of Mysteries. Draco Malfoy is simply a child left behind. He's not used to being left behind, standing on his own feet – no matter how perfect he looks, inside he is broken. The only perfect and complete thing in him is his soul and nothing more. She can see his mind stripped of its defences, naked before her and incomplete, in search of his freedom. He aches for freedom. Freedom which Luna longs to give him.

_So you can be important for him_. The little voice inside her whispers. _So he cares for you, like you care for him. So he sees you the way you see him. So he notices you. So you are a person to him, something, and someone important and treasured._

Luna can't deny the truth. It speaks the truth. There's nothing incorrect in the sentence in which that little nagging voice reminds her of her desires.

And then there's the close proximity. He doesn't care for it, not now; he's not in control of all his senses now. But she is in control and it bothers her. It bothers her, because she's not used to such close distance between her and another person, especially male. It sounds wrong yet feels right; she wants him closer and closer, knowing very well that it cannot happen. Mustn't happen. Any closer and they'll both break. She cannot let him break; she cannot push him any further. He's so delicate, so fragile that it hurts her to even think about it. If she could just take him into her arms and - No, she cannot. From where are all these silly thoughts coming to her mind? She must be going insane!

"Tell me Lovegood," he hisses, as he stares into her eyes with those storming grey eyes. "Tell me, now, how you know. How can you possibly know that my mother's life is in danger?" It's almost as if he's talking to himself, as if she's not there and he is merely forcing his mind to solve this riddle.

"I guessed you were worried for someone you care. And when you said the word 'mommy', you had 'the eyes'." She answers simply, her eyes still full of sorrow. She breaks the eye contact and frowning a little, she continues. "I had them, too. Until the funeral, I refused to believe the truth. And then I got worried for my father. What if he left me too? What if all these happened because of me? What if-?" She takes a deep breath and forces herself to continue, her voice now no more than a whisper. "I know what you are going through. I was not in the exact same situation, but I understand. Let me help." Her eyes stare into his once again, the pleading obvious in them. She slowly lifts her right hand and reaches for his shoulder, only to find his hand grabbing her wrist and herself straddled between him and the bookcase.

"No," he shakes his head firmly, refusing to meet her eyes. "I don't need your help. I'm fine by my own." His eyes harden once again, this time with determination and disbelief. "And I don't believe your stupid explanation about 'the eyes', not for one second. I'm not an idiot. Did that idiotic ghost tell you?" His frown is once again visible.

Luna closes her eyes and stifles an impatient sigh. Why doesn't he understand? How can he not believe that eyes have the power of expressing everything to another person? She knows that Legilimency was born from the 'eyes are the windows of the soul' saying. She knows that he is the biggest proof of that. Why can he not believe the truth?

"Myrtle did not tell me anything. Your eyes told me everything. You cannot stop them from expressing what you feel, no matter how good an Occlumens you are. Is it so hard to believe?"

"Yes, it is hard to believe, Lovegood. Tell me the truth, now. This is your one last chance or I'll make sure you spend the next two weeks at the Infirmary."

Her eyes open on their own accord and they look at each other straight in the eye. She can see his wand in his right hand from the corner of her eye, but she is oddly calm. There's not one ounce of pressure in her mind as there should be, since he has just threatened her. She smiles, again, frustrating him even more.

"You won't, Draco."

He spits his answer in her face, his clenched, pearl-white teeth showing.

"Don't say my name!"

"I will. And the truth is what I told you, Draco. Let me help you, I mean you or your mother no harm. Please, let me." _In,_ she adds in her mind.

He lets go of her wrist and takes a step back, his head lowered. Luna doesn't know what to say to him. He looks so small, so afraid and so desperate... Although it hurts to look at him, she does. Sweetly, gently, she takes his hands into hers and entwines their fingers. He speaks, as though her touch triggers him.

"He says he'll kill her if I don't do as he says. I cannot refuse him. He says he'll kill her first, then my father. He might as well go with the second threat. I don't give a damn about that moron called my father!" He frees one of his hands from her hold and punches the shelf next to her shoulder. His breaths are ragged and he has a hard time swallowing. She tentatively pulls him to her and wraps her arms around him. She is seeing his imperfect side now, the side he has been hiding from everyone for a long time. And she is extremely glad that he doesn't fight against her touch and instead leans closer to her. They match, she notices now: both pale and blond, both imperfect inside and both yearning for something. He yearns for freedom and she for satisfaction.

Then it dawns on her: Of course! That's why she's so attracted to him. He's perfect whenever her eyes catch his sight. That's why she wants him this much. That's how he catches her attention this much. She yearns for perfection – for that is the key to satisfaction. She will be satisfied, partly, when she can get the sweetness she wants from him – but she'll never be fully satisfied. She'll keep wanting more, whereas he will keep leaning on her to stop himself from breaking. He'll be done once he can get all the freedom he longs for. Here are their imperfections, waiting on silver trays to be shown.

And now, when she's seen that there's more to the perfection of him – the imperfect side – what happens? She knows that she can't deny the truth anymore, that she cares for him. And now, do her feelings for him change? Does she accept both his perfection and imperfections? What is it that she chooses?

She realizes, as he raises his head, embarrassed and fully in control of himself, that she has already made her choice. She chooses everything of him, if he will let her.

He is staring at her like he has never seen her before. There's confusion on his face and Luna can't blame him. Anyone would be surprised find themselves at Loony Lovegood's arms. She smiles ruefully and asks.

"Do you mean You-Know-Who, Draco? Are you saying that he's threatening you to do something you don't want to do?"

He pales but answers.

"When did I say that? Did I-? No, forget all this Lovegood. Just... forget all of this. This never happened. What the hell are you doing hugging me anyway?" As he speaks, he frees himself from her grip, his eyes fixated on everywhere but her. He seems too uncomfortable around her. She has a very good guess as to why.

"Well, you looked like you needed a hug. You were ready to burst into tears."

His lips curl and the mocking smile she sees on his face every day returns.

"You must be mistaking yourself with me, Lovegood. Does your insanity affect your eyesight now?"

She doesn't answer him by speaking, but by slapping him on his cheek. Hard. He lifts a hand to his reddening cheek, the rest of his face flushed with anger.

"What the hell do you think you are doing, you weirdo?! Why'd you slap me?"

"You looked like you needed one." She answers with a cold smile on her face. She's both horrified and content after the slap she gave him, hardly knowing why. Why would anybody feel horrified for slapping somebody who earns their slap by insulting them? Why would anybody feel anything besides satisfaction when they slap the person who calls them a weirdo and insults them and-?

She lets out a sigh and bows her head to clear her head for a second. This is all too tiring. This... thing, dealing with all these emotions and him is like a monster devouring her whole. Her head feels so heavy and her eyelids are drooping – this is not normal. She feels exhausted and sleepy. She shouldn't feel this way merely because of emotional stress. This is a first, she thinks. She usually doesn't feel sleepy, no, she never feels sleepy. She is always awake, always in touch with her senses. Then why-?

She doesn't have an answer. And that's almost the same as saying she has no idea. Again.

She frowns. This is happening too frequently for her liking. There must be an awful lot of Nargles and Wracklespurts around.

When she looks up to him so she can see his reaction, she finds that he is simply staring at her intently. He has taken another step towards her and she's once again straddled between him and the rough, wooden shelves. She stops herself before she can tap her foot in frustration; that's too childish and she doesn't want to give him another antic of hers to mock as he pleases. She tries to slow down her heartbeats by willing and fails miserably. He affects her too much for her heart to calm down.

"Do you, by any chance, enjoy confusing your victims by closing the distance, Draco?"

"What are you babbling about, Lovegood? I do no such thing." He replies, the superior feeling in his scowl perfectly in sync with the one in his voice.

"Well, you keep pushing me towards the bookcase so I can be between you and the bookcase without any chance of escaping. That's a good strategy, and does nothing good to calm your victims' nerves, I assume."

He raises a brow, his expression still perfect somehow. She doesn't know how he does that single eyebrow thing; she has never been able to do it. Maybe he can teach her sometime...

"You realize that you're saying you are nervous. Are you really that uncomfortable with me close to you, Lovegood? Or is it because you aren't used to having anybody treating you like you are a girl?" He drawls, back to his 'rich, snobby prick' persona. Pretending, she thinks.

"You aren't treating me like a girl. At least, I think not. I don't expect you push other girls around, especially not Pansy Parkinson. She seems to really fancy you, you know." Her eyes are wider now; her head tilted to her left, her mouth half-open. She wishes he would kiss her now, right now, without a care about the world. She wishes he would, but what good does wishing does? Nothing. In real life, wishing means nothing. Pansy Parkinson doesn't wish, she simply does and she does what Luna wishes deep in her heart almost every day. It's simply not fair. Life's not fair. And life's not perfect. She wishes life was more like him. And immediately, she hates herself for that particular wish. It's horrifying to even think about, and she feels so ashamed that she can hardly look at herself in the mental mirror she has in the palace of her mind.

His scowl is gone, replaced with a look of bemusement.

"You think I'm going to converse with you about my love life, you little oddball? Pray tell, what makes you think that?" He pauses a little before adding, "And if you ask me, I treat you more like a girl than the other idiots in this bloody school would. Who would ever think of you as a girl, anyway? You are only Loony Lovegood, the resident freak of school. Hmm?" His voice softens as he finishes the sentence. Then, as if a sudden thought comes to his mind, he takes her chin in his hand and whispers. "Nobody would think of you like that, Lovegood. Nobody would see past your weirdness."

She freezes. Her mind is numb, blank, everything comes down – and a part of her cries inside. He is right. Nobody would, nobody does. Not him, not Harry, definitely not Ron or Neville. They, except Draco, are his friends and yet, they still hesitate before they speak to her. It all comes to one thing: Her imperfection.

As he stands before her, mighty and perfect, _simply perfect_ with that damn annoying smirk of his, she feels like it's all going to be okay if she rips him to shreds. If she hurts him, wipes that bloody smirk off his face, all's going to be alright. If she paints him in blood, she'll feel fine again, she'll be perfect the way she never was. A small sob escapes her throat, but she tries her best to ignore it. She can feel the tears coming from the stinging sensation in her eyes. She lifts her head up and bravely, asks the question that comes first to her mind as it frees itself from the cold numbness his comments award her.

"Would you?"

He is taken aback by her question: two simple words that shake the ground beneath his feet. One doesn't have to be a genius to see how shocked he is. She practically confessed to him, after all. Who wouldn't be taken aback? It is even more awkward than facing a distraught Hermione Granger admitting the existence of the Crumple-Horned Snorekacks.

"I-" He starts, then stops. He shakes his head like he wants to clear the endless surge of thoughts filling it. She knows that he is different than he was a year ago, when he would simply brush it off as a smart-aleck comment. Now he knows better and she knows better, either; that's why she asks the question. There are two options: He answers with a yes or a no. Or, cravenly, he creates his own option: He avoids the question, ignores it, pretends she never asked – pretends to be the rich snob he was before the summer, before he was... _tainted_.

Before he became perfect in the middle of his imperfections. Or the opposite. She is no longer sure.

He makes his choice.

"That's a ridiculous question to ask." He silently, softly answers after pulling himself together. He is still grabbing her chin. Even when he hears her ask what he dreads the most, he doesn't let go. She wonders if this is a sign he involuntarily gives her. Her hands, which lay motionless at her sides ever since he freed himself from her embrace, are shaking with anticipation. She draws in a deep breath.

"It is." She solemnly admits. "Haven't you realized? Freaks ask ridiculous questions. Say, do you like birds, Draco?"

She cannot read his eyes now. That's a first. She used to pride herself for being able to read him so well, and yet... He starts laughing and she fails to see what's so amusing as she watches him laugh his head off. It's hysterical and as always, she finds a sad part in it. She finds something sad in anything he does, anything he sees, anything he says and anything he does. There's this feeling of an unexplainable sorrow everywhere around him. It completes him, another part of his perfection.

A few seconds after he calms down, he speaks with a hysterical edge to his voice.

"You are crazy, Lovegood. You truly are. And my answer is yes."

He shakes his head and chuckles a little bit more, leaning on the bookcase with a hand, the other on her shoulder. Luna sees a smile, a sincere smile – the first one she ever saw in his face – lighting his face while she still wonders if she should take his answer as a joke or confession. He decides for her and leaning closer, he gives her a quick kiss on the cheek, close to her mouth, utterly shocking her and himself as Luna's still functioning brain (though slower than usual due to his unpredictable reaction) processes what's happening. In that very small moment of the unexpected kiss, she is too aware of him: of his overwhelming scent, of his intoxicating presence, of his soft touch, of the feel of his somehow rough lips against her shivering skin and of the a silent promise of more to come that she finds remaining after it. She is, to put it mildly, frozen.

Before she can move or do anything else, he is gone, leaving her to deal with her too complicated thoughts forming a penetrable fortress in her head. Behind the fortress is a jungle of even more thoughts and she can feel the upcoming headache already. How, for Merlin's sake, can she feel this way just because of a simple kiss on her cheek? Harry has kissed her before on the cheek and she has never felt like this – what's this weird obsession with Draco Malfoy? She groans, puts her palm on her forehead and relives the entire exchange in her mind, until she's sure she hasn't imagined it. She finally decides she cannot imagine such perfect sensations all by herself, even though her imagination is far greater than anybody she has ever met. _No_, she decides, _there's no way I could make up the kiss._ She moves the palm the touch her cheek. It's still blazing as if he set a Gubraithian Fire there and she knows very well that whenever she sees him, her cheek will be set afire. It's a mark he left on her, one in her heart, abstract and ever-lasting and one invisible, solid and not, a reminder on her skin. Perfection on her imperfect soul.

She sits on the cold library floor; her mind too busy, her hands too shaky, her breathing too unsteady and her eyes too alive. She idly wonders if he can read her eyes now, if he's still there somewhere, watching her breaking after a simple touch, a simple kiss he gives her. She can't hold her tears anymore; they flow down her face freely.

What is she supposed to do now? Why would he kiss her on her cheek? Why does everthing have to get so complicated? Why is he so perfect?

She has no idea. And the answer doesn't do anything to help the bloody headache, either.

---

**Edit:** This is my answer to the anonymous review since I couldn't find any other way to reply. Beware, this IS a LONG reply. I'm a sucker for long paragraphs, yep, so sue me. Hmph.

To Rahel Jacobson: Firstly, thank you very much, you have my immense gratitude for all your lovely compliments. I'm aware that I wrote mostly Luna's thought, elaborated on her feelings rather than the events; however, I'm afraid that's just how I like to write. I didn't think of any background info while writing this and accept this as a mistake, though I don't think it affected the fic very much.

Professional aspect, eh? Heh, that guy's weird =D Most juries in that kind of tv shows are weird actually, you should see the ones in our country, you'd die laughing your head off. Anyway, I guess I should be concentrating on answering rather than commenting on juries.

Your review was astoundingly beautiful itself, I got teary at the beauty of your comparison. I don't want to think of posting this here as a mistake, there are a lot of good writers and readers here; though the archives are also infected with over-hormonal morons only interested in reading stories with their characters making-out and other abominable types. Ahem, I don't want to insult some people, so I'll just continue by saying I do hope you read my other stories, despite their lack of intensity and such...

Oh, the mean comment. Ah, mean, mean, mean, me-! Wait, where's the mean comment? This is constructive criticism! I thank you again, and here is my answer: I'm afraid I'm no good at continuations. I have a lot of ideas swarming in my mind, and then I start writing them, post a chapter or two; but I can't, simply CAN'T continue fics. The reason lies within my lacking the amount of time necessary to write and my unwillingness and/or confusion as to how I intended to continue the fic. I either forget what I wanted to write in the first place and take a different turn or I simply lose my enthusiasm with the fic. I've tried writing several chapters before posting, but I found that I couldn't write the earlier chapters and my mind always wandered to the climax or the resolution of the story. I'm currently very busy to even work on this very bad habit, so I won't be continuing this or any other fic for a long time no matter how talented (!) I am. Maybe one day. I have a few ideas about a multichapter fic on Luna's imprisonment in Malfoy Manor, possible Lunaco romance and angst... I'd like to hear your thoughts on this, but I'm afraid I don't know how to reach you.

The second part: You've said that Luna would not normally(in her sense) start the day pondering the perfection of Draco Malfoy. Well, she doesn't really. Who says she started the day thinking about him? I started the fic like that, because I had to start it somehow. No excuse here. But she doesn't just wake up one day and start thinking about him. I apologize if I couldn't make that clearly. The fic starts with her thoughts centered on Malfoy because it had to. Not because I had a sudden urge to make her start the day with ominous thoughts on Malfoy. I wouldn't torment poor Luna like that. I'm not that evil.

I intended this as a weird, sceneless, all-thoughts fic but got defeated by this unmistakably familiar voice which belongs to my dear friend Puce who told me she would kill me and wouldn't read the story if I added NO dialogue. So I did. Ad I'm absolutely rubbish on describing the scenery and focusing on something other than the feelings or the moment, so here you have it. I'll try rewriting it and perhaps post the rewritten one here some ages later. Thank you for your advice, I'll definitely try that with the rewritten one.

Oh my, did I? Did I really get 99%? Thank you very much, but I doubt I deserve this. I'm not talented, am I?

Thank you very much. Again. Again, again and again =D


End file.
